


The World Forgetting, by the World Forgot

by lotherington



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotherington/pseuds/lotherington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>‘John?’ Sherlock whispers. They’re in bed together, lying under the sheets as summer sunshine pours in from outside. ‘Am I... am I a freak?’</i></p><p>Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind crossover/fusion/re-telling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World Forgetting, by the World Forgot

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind crossover/fusion/re-telling. I’ve borrowed a fair bit of dialogue from the film which is obviously not my creative property, and I’m not making any money from this. If you’re familiar with the film, John is Joel, Sherlock is Clementine, Jim is Patrick, Molly is a hybrid of Stan and Mary and Sebastian is Howard. Writing this completely swallowed a couple of days back in the summer so I really hope you enjoy it!

Two strangers meet on Margate beach one February morning.

John Watson takes a breath and lifts a faltering hand in greeting to the man standing staring out across the waves, ankle deep in the snow that covers the sand. John’s grip tightens on his stick and his hand drops back to his side as quickly as he had raised it, embarrassed at the impulse. He looks down and then up again.

Sherlock Holmes nods when he sees the man raise his head. He smiles despite himself and rubs three gloved fingers across his bottom lip, considering. Frowning, he turns back to the waves and the sky full of snow, unsettled for a reason he cannot explain.

***

They share a train compartment on the way back to London. Sherlock draws his coat around himself, gets up and sits closer to John, opposite him.

‘Hello,’ Sherlock says, his eyes flickering across the lines of John’s tired face, the collar of his jacket, the wrinkles of denim in his jeans.

John turns away from the whitewashed world outside and looks at Sherlock. He smiles briefly, but it curves up to meet his eyes. ‘Hello,’ he replies.

‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ Sherlock says, his eyes brightening. He sits up straighter.

‘I’m sorry, what?’

There’s a pause and Sherlock’s lips twist into a smile. ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ he repeats.

***

‘We could, uh, we could share a taxi?’ John nods to the black cab he has waiting at the top of the taxi rank at Victoria station as his shout stops Sherlock from walking, his head bowed against the wind. Hands in pockets, Sherlock pivots ninety degrees and thinks about it for a moment before nodding.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes, alright.’ He climbs into the back after John and they both shiver once the cab’s warmth wraps itself around them.

‘Where to?’ the driver asks. John nods for Sherlock to go first.

‘Baker Street, please,’ Sherlock says. ‘221.’

***

‘Will you come up?’ Sherlock says, half in the cab and half out of it, frowning slightly as he talks to John. ‘I’ve... I’ve drinks, or... I’d like it. If you came up.’

John thinks, staring off to one side. ‘I...’ he glances between the cabbie and Sherlock and then nods, laughing to himself at his impulsiveness. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes, yeah, that’d be... uh, how much do I owe you?’

The driver presses the button above his head that controls the meter. ‘Eight quid, mate,’ he says, and John pays as Sherlock unlocks the front door.

***

Sherlock is a liar. He doesn’t have drinks. He does, however, have a foot in the bottom drawer of the freezer, a cow’s liver in the sink and an array of chemicals littering the kitchen table.

John lifts his stick and points to the skull on the mantelpiece.

‘That’s a skull,’ he says. He should be more scared than he is, having gone into a stranger’s flat and found a foot in the freezer and a liver in the sink and a skull on the mantelpiece, but he isn’t scared.

He’s fascinated.

***

‘You could move in, take the room upstairs,’ says Sherlock later that evening, caught in a rare flight of fancy after Chinese takeaway and watching a James Bond film that neither of them had ever seen. Sherlock had found it tucked between a book on anatomy and a plant pot on his bookshelf with no idea how it had ended up there.

‘We’ve only just met and you want me to move into your flat?’ John says with a disbelieving laugh. They are sitting on the floor opposite each other, cross-legged, eating out of their cartons with chopsticks. ‘You’re mad.’

Sherlock smiles slowly, his eyes wrinkling at the corners. ‘It’s been suggested,’ he says in his low, rumbling voice, watching John carefully.

They finish eating in silence, the film long over.

‘I ought to go,’ John says, and gets up.

Sherlock looks up at him from the floor. ‘Stay,’ he says.

‘I... I’ve got work in the morning, I need to get up early, I...’

Sherlock stands, pulls the sleeve of John’s jumper up, scratching his phone number onto John’s arm with a fountain pen, along with his name.

‘I’d like you to ring me. Will you?’

John laughs. ‘Yes,’ he says, nodding. ‘Yes.’

***

John is halfway across the road and about to hail a cab when Sherlock’s window flies open and thin arms and a long torso and a strange, lovely face push their way out of the frame.

‘You could wish me a happy Valentine’s day when you ring,’ he says with a wicked smirk.

John laughs out loud and waves goodbye.

***

‘You took your time.’

John grins and looks at the ceiling in the hallway of Harry’s house in Wapping. ‘I just got in.’

For a minute, there’s only the sound of the two of them breathing.

‘Do you miss me?’ Sherlock asks, quieter than before.

John frowns. Blinks. ‘I... yeah,’ he says. ‘Oddly enough. I do.’

‘You _do_?’ Sherlock says, his tone confident and teasing once more. ‘Alright then, John, have it your way. ‘Til death do us part, what do you say?’

John laughs out loud.

‘Tomorrow night? Honeymoon on Baker Street?’

***

The next evening, John is outside 221 and about to knock when a young man approaches.

‘Can I help you?’ the man asks, and John blinks at the question.

‘Is there anything I can help you with?’ the man asks. He is softly spoken, Irish, small.

‘Um, no?’ John replies.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m... I’m really not sure what you’re asking me,’ John says with a puzzled frown.

‘Oh,’ the man says, the syllable dragging on for longer than it should. ‘Oh. Alright.’ He frowns too and walks away. He clutches a stick and walks with a limp, just like John. John watches him go for a moment before shaking his head and knocking the door.

***

John doesn’t really know how it happens but there’s a murder and an honest-to-god stakeout at a restaurant and running through backstreets and John forgets his stick and knocks a man out and there’s blue lights at the end of the night and Sherlock says ‘why _don’t_ you take the room upstairs?’ and, breathless from exhilaration and exhaustion, John replies with,

‘Alright. Yes, alright, I will.’

***

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!  
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.  
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!  
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd.

***

‘Are you going to patch things up with Sherlock in time for Valentine’s day?’ Harry asks. She and John are sitting next to each other on the sofa that had once belonged to their parents, surrounded by boxes of John’s things, packed and labelled in Sherlock’s scrawled handwriting.

John licks his lips. ‘No,’ he says. His eyes flick to the unopened letter on the coffee table, addressed to Harry, identical to the one Lestrade had received and shown John a few days previously.

‘You’re so good together, John.’

 _I thought so too_ , John thinks.

‘You’re at Clara’s tonight, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah.’ Harry squeezes his knee. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ John manages a smile for her benefit. ‘You go. I’ll be fine.’

‘There’s six cans in the fridge if you want to deal with this in the traditional Watson way,’ Harry says. John snorts.

‘Go on,’ he says. He kisses her cheek. ‘Sod off.’

***

‘Is this the one?’

‘I don’t know, I can’t see the numbers... oh, wait, there he is, that’s him.’ Molly nods to John, who is on the other side of the road to the van Molly is driving. ‘That’s definitely him.’ She pulls up on the kerb and parks. She unbuckles her seatbelt and sits back to wait. She watches John walk into the house with a nervous glance over his shoulder.

The lights inside turn on, and ten minutes later, they’re off again, the house dark and quiet.

‘Showtime,’ Jim trills with a grin, jumping out of the van.

***

‘I don’t understand.’

John sits in the middle of Lestrade’s sofa, back straight, feet together, staring straight ahead.

‘Maybe... maybe you should just see this as a fresh start,’ Lestrade says, awkwardly grabbing the back of his neck. ‘A new life.’

‘I don’t want a fresh start,’ John says quietly. ‘I don’t understand, I didn’t think it was that bad, I know he’s been bored recently, but... but I don’t... I don’t understand. It was like he didn’t even know who I was, Greg, like he had no clue.’ John closes his eyes and swallows. ‘I was standing outside the door to the flat, to _our flat_ , and he just looked at me like...’ John sighs and buries his face in his hands.

Lestrade toys with the ring pull on his can of beer. He looks at the floor.

***

‘Can I help you?’

John laughs shortly. ‘Sherlock, what are you playing at?’

Sherlock’s eyebrows draw together and he pulls the door of 221b closer into his body. ‘What is it you want?’ he asks.

John blinks. ‘Sherlock, come on, it’s me. Let me in.’

‘Do I know you?’

There is no hint of teasing on Sherlock’s blank, puzzled face. There is no sign of recognition.

‘Sherlock--’

A pair of arms snake their way around Sherlock’s waist from behind. Sherlock smiles and turns, presses a soft kiss to the forehead of the smaller man who embraces him. ‘Jim,’ he murmurs. ‘Go back to bed.’

‘Who’s this?’ Jim gestures with his chin to John. He is softly spoken. Irish. Small.

‘Sherlock, what the hell are you--’ John’s voice cracks. His breath comes quickly, _too_ quickly.

‘I’ve no idea,’ Sherlock murmurs, resting his hands over Jim’s. He raises his voice to address John. ‘If you’ve a mystery you want solving then I shall have to direct you to my website, I’m afraid, I’m rather... busy at present.’ He smiles over his shoulder at Jim.

Jim laughs softly. It’s an unnerving, tinkling sound. His dark brown eyes shift to look at John.

‘You know my name; any search engine worth its salt will pull up my website for you. Good morning.’ He closes the door in John’s face.

John stands in the hallway of his own home and listens to Sherlock’s rich laugh behind the door, the unmistakable sounds of kissing, a deep moan. His leg seizes and his hand reaches to clutch at it.

He limps for the first time in nearly two years, all the way back to Harry’s, where his things sit in boxes on the front doorstep.

***

‘Look,’ Lestrade says. He picks up a brown envelope from the coffee table, half-hidden underneath the Evening Standard. He pulls out a small piece of card and hands it to John, shaking his head, looking lost. ‘It’s... It’s a place, it does a thing, I... I don’t know.’

 _Dear Mr. Lestrade,_

 _ **Sherlock Holmes** has had **John Watson** erased from his memory. Please never mention their relationship to him again._

 _Thank you._

 _LACUNA INC_

‘Right,’ John murmurs. ‘Right.’

***

Lacuna Inc. is tucked away between a dentist’s and a plastic surgeon’s on Harley Street.

‘I have an appointment to see, uh...’

‘Dr. Moran.’ The pretty receptionist smiles and finishes John’s sentence for him. ‘Fill this out, please.’ She hands him a form.

‘I’m only here to talk to him.’

‘You still need to fill that out.’ She smiles again and answers the phone. ‘Good morning, Lacuna, how may I help?’

‘I... I don’t have a pen.’

‘There’s one just there,’ the receptionist says in a whisper, moving the mouthpiece of the phone away as she points out the biro on the counter.

***

‘You should not have seen this,’ Dr. Moran says to John, glancing down at the card John gave him. ‘I apologise.’ The receptionist stays just behind the doctor’s chair, fussing with the papers on his desk.

John stares over the desk at Dr. Moran. His face is lined and tight and sad. He leans forward. ‘This... this is some sort of joke, right? Sherlock’s just--’

‘I can assure you, it’s not a hoax,’ Dr. Moran says, and the receptionist shakes her head too. She smiles gently at John.

‘No,’ she says, and leaves the room.

‘This... this isn’t real,’ John says, shaking his head. ‘This isn’t possible.’

Dr. Moran sighs. ‘Look, Mr. Watson--’

‘Doctor,’ John corrects him.

‘Doctor Watson, sorry, our files are confidential. I’m afraid I haven’t any evidence to give you but, ah... Mr. Holmes was not... was not happy. And he wanted to move on.’

***

‘Why would he do that to me?’

John is on Lestrade’s sofa again.

‘You... you know what Sherlock’s like, John,’ Lestrade says, placing a can of beer in John’s hands. ‘Probably... got bored, and...’

‘Bored,’ John mutters. ‘Yeah.’

***

He has a shower at Harry’s and cries and slams his hands against the tiles until the water runs cold.

***

John pushes past the receptionist at Lacuna the next morning, limping down the corridor, his stick clicking with every other step. He sees Dr. Moran leaving his office.

‘I want it done,’ John shouts, the bags under his eyes more prominent than ever, stubble all over his face.

‘I’m sorry, Doctor, he just pushed right past, I told him how pre-Valentine’s day is our busiest time and--’

‘No, no, it’s alright, Molly, let him through.’

‘But there are people waiting--’

‘Doctor Watson, if you’d like to, uh, if you’d like to come inside.’

John sits down in the chair opposite Dr. Moran’s. He stares at the table.

‘What we need to do first, Doctor Watson, is create a map of Sherlock in your brain,’ Dr. Moran says, not quite meeting John’s eyes when John looks up. ‘So, uh, you need to go home and collect anything that has some sort of association to Sherlock, anything at all. Photos, clothing, books, films you may have watched together, journal entries, gifts... we want to empty your home, empty your life of Sherlock.’

John stares straight ahead. He blinks slowly.

‘After the mapping is done our technicians will come to your home and do the erasing tonight. And in the morning, you’ll wake in your own bed as if nothing had happened... a new life awaiting you.’

***

John returns to the tiny clinic that afternoon with three binbags full of things and the password to his blog written down on a piece of paper.

Dr. Moran presses a button on the tape recorder. He nods, indicating John should speak.

‘Uh. Uh, my name is John Watson and I’m here to, uh... I’m here to erase Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Tell me about Sherlock,’ Dr. Moran says, making notes in a jotter on his desk.

‘I’d... I’d just been invalided out from Afghanistan.’ John glances down at his left hand. It shakes. ‘I’d gone for a walk one afternoon and I ran into an old friend of mine from university - Mike, Mike Stamford. He... he took me back to St. Barts, where we went, where he works, and I, uh... I met Sherlock.’

***

Molly apparently doubles as a receptionist and what Dr. Moran describes as ‘a technician.’

‘Alright, Mr. Watson, I want you to react to these objects if you can.’ John is in a futuristic-looking chair, hooked up to a futuristic-looking machine.

She places Sherlock’s old blue scarf on the small metal table in front of him.

‘That’s... that’s Sherlock’s scarf, he gave it--’

‘I’ll actually get a much better emotional readout if you refrain from any sort of verbal description of the items,’ she says to him with a polite smile. ‘Just focus on the memories.’

‘Right,’ John says, and nods.

A pair of mugs.

A broken violin bow.

A purple button.

Sherlock’s riding crop.

***

‘Just focus on the memories.’

Molly’s voice sounds far away.

John’s eyelids flicker in his sleep.

***

‘Jim, check that wire there, will you? I’m not quite getting everything.’ Molly frowns at the screen on her lap and taps at its keyboard. Her frown deepens. ‘I’m getting a readout of my own voice, I...’

John wakes up in the clinic in his pyjamas. Dr. Moran unstraps the blood pressure sleeve from his arm and John knows what he is about to say before he says it.

‘It’s happening, isn’t it?’ John asks. ‘I’m inside my head.’

Dr. Moran looks him up and down. ‘Yes. Yes, that would be about right.’

John looks at himself sitting down in the futuristic-looking chair.

 _’Jim, what are you doing? That wire, fix that wire!’_

Everything’s a rush of noise and movement. John sees himself with binbags, hears Molly’s voice, Dr. Moran’s, the soft Irish lilt of Jim’s.

 _’Why are there so many wires?’_

‘Good morning, Doctor Watson, how are you today?’

‘I don’t like this,’ John says, looking around frantically.

‘Oh, look, here’s his blog.’

John hears Molly read out the words he wrote nearly two years ago.

Everything’s a rush of noise and movement.

‘I googled him when I got back to the flat. It's mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he's clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming.

‘So tomorrow, we're off to look at a flat. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes.’

***

John screams in his sleep and Jim falls back from his position crouched on the floor.

‘Careful!’ Molly hisses. ‘Calm down.’ She sits up and clicks away at the keyboard. ‘That’s that one gone,’ she murmurs.

Jim stands up. ‘Bit of a mess, isn’t it?’

‘It’s his sister’s house, Jim,’ Molly says with a roll of her eyes.

‘Jim,’ John breathes, his eyes still closed.

‘Can we please just finish this job? It’s going to be a very long night.’

‘Of course,’ Jim says, moving to stand behind Molly. ‘Of course.’

***

‘This is the last time I saw you,’ John whispers.

Sherlock strides into the flat, his head high, his eyes bright. A thin trail of blood drips from his nose down over his mouth, onto his chin and then his shirt. John is standing next to the fireplace, holding onto the mantelpiece, watching Sherlock in the mirror.

‘Mm, hello,’ Sherlock purrs. He moves closer and presses the length of his body against John’s back, wraps his arms around John’s waist and starts licking and biting at John’s neck, rubbing his crotch against John’s arse.

John’s exposes his neck and pushes back against Sherlock and reaches up to touch his hair because he just wants to _feel_... before he realises how wrong, how very wrong the whole thing is, and he pulls himself away, shoves Sherlock backwards.

‘You’re high,’ he growls.

‘And?’ Sherlock’s cat’s eyes narrow when John turns to look at him. He sniffs. A fresh trickle of blood drips from his nose.

You’ve done enough fucking coke to make your nose bleed, Jesus, Sherlock...’ John grabs his jacket from the hook and slams his keys down onto the table next to the phone. ‘I’m going to stay with Harry, don’t you dare follow me. You’re pathetic.’

‘Don’t call me pathetic.’

‘You _are_ pathetic, Sherlock,’ John snarls. He slams the door and walks down the stairs.

***

‘John!’

‘I told you not to follow me, Sherlock!’ John shouts over his shoulder, striding down Baker Street, towards the tube station. The houses he walks past collapse into a pile of rubble. Cars twist in on themselves until they’re nothing but a twisted lump of metal.

‘Look, it’s falling apart out here, let me call you a -- fuck. John! You’ll be sorry you did this!’ Sherlock yells when John keeps walking, refusing to turn round.

‘You did it to me first!’ John roars over his shoulder. ‘I can’t believe you did this to me! I’m erasing you and I’m bloody well happy about it!

He walks down the stairs to the tube and darkness follows him, swallowing the memory.

***

He hears voices as he waits on the near-empty platform of the station.

‘I’m in love with someone.’

‘You are?

‘Remember that man we did last week? The one with the skull?

‘That’s this one’s man.’ Molly pauses. ‘ _Was_ this one’s man.’

‘I... I fell in love with him that night.’

‘Christ, Jim.’

‘What?’

‘He was unconscious.’

John stares up at the ceiling and paces back and forth.

‘I stole some of his underwear, as well.’

‘You... you did _what_? I... Jim, I don’t want to hear about this! Come on, we’ve got work to do.’

The voices fade and John’s train comes and he steps on and the warm air of the underground ruffles his hair as they move away.

***

John and Sherlock are eating Chinese in the living room together, surrounded by feathers. The radio is on.

 _‘There’s... there’s more,’ Jim says._

 _‘What?_ More?’

John gets up and looks around the room for the source of the voices, behind the curtains, under the TV, in the dark kitchen. Sherlock watches him.

 _‘After we did him, I... I went back to his flat and asked him out.’_

Frowning, John pulls the cushions off the sofa, lifts a few of the books on the desk.

 _‘You did_ what _? Christ, Jim, do you have any idea how _unethical_ \--’_

‘It’s not really that bad...’

‘There’s someone here,’ John says to Sherlock, who is still on the sofa, impassively eating his noodles. ‘He... he’s stolen your underwear.’

Sherlock frowns. ‘I don’t see anyone,’ he says shortly.

The clock ticks. John goes over to the window.

He turns around, and the room is dark and Sherlock is gone.

***

John pulls his stripy jumper up over his face and rests the skull on top of his head so it looks as though the skull is wearing John’s clothes. Sherlock storms into the room, his coat flying behind him, his face twisted.

‘Bored,’ he mutters, grabbing John’s gun off the desk and shooting through one of the cushions that is next to John on the sofa. Feathers fly everywhere and John pushes his head through the neck of his jumper again, buries his face in his hands.

‘I should have left you at the Yard.’

The front door slams and the room disappears.

***

‘Sherlock, now isn’t the time or the place for--’

‘Shut up, John! They won’t listen, they never _listen_ \--’

They are at Scotland Yard in a room with about forty other people. Sherlock is right in the middle, being intimidating and loud. They’re dealing with a crime of passion and Sherlock can’t quite get his head around the motives of the murderer, who has disappeared without trace.

‘ _Sherlock_ ,’ John growls, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist. ‘There’s no need to be vile just because we’re not getting anywhere, we’ll figure it out.’ Sherlock shakes him away and whirls around until he is looming over John, his eyes icy.

‘Shut up,’ he hisses. ‘You ultimately have no input into the outcome of this case so either stop hanging off my coattails and slowing me down or do something useful and _shut up_.’

‘Oh,’ John says, his jaw tight, breathing shortly through his nose. ‘Oh right, I see.’

Sherlock sneers and turns away. John glowers at his back and folds his arms across his chest, narrowing his eyes.

***

‘I still cannot _believe_ you stole that man’s underwear,’ Molly says, shaking her head. She smiles slightly though, as if she’s in awe of Jim’s nerve.

Jim giggles. ‘I never really seem to have much luck with men, but--’

‘Well maybe if you didn’t _steal_ their _underwear_!’ Molly exclaims, though she glances at Jim and laughs too as she clicks at her computer, her eyes drifting to John lying on the bed.

‘I always wonder, you know. What happened. With things like this, I mean, I always wonder why they fell out of love or whether they were really in love in the first place and what was it like when it was good.’ She sips her water. ‘Do you wonder?’

‘Not really,’ Jim says.

***

John lies in their bed, dozing. He is curled in on himself, the cold late-Autumn night emphasising every line and scar and wrinkle on his face. Sherlock stretches out next to him, moulds their bodies together, presses warm, open-mouthed kisses to John’s throat and then his cheek.

‘You don’t tell me anything, John,’ Sherlock mumbles, sounding far off and sad. A dearth of cases has led to Sherlock being inert and introspective for weeks. In some ways it’s worse than the manic energy that boredom usually gives him.

‘I don’t need to tell you anything. You can read me in seconds.’

‘Not always.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘I like to hear it from you, John. I shouldn’t have to deduce how your day went or whether you’re happy or--’ Sherlock sighs and his grip on John’s waist tightens. He kisses John’s neck again. ‘You don’t talk to me anymore.’

‘ _Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end_ ,’ John mimics with a roll of his eyes.

‘This isn’t about me, John,’ Sherlock snaps. The warm weight of him from John’s back disappears.

‘Alright, I’m sorry,’ John says, rolling over and catching Sherlock’s hip before he can get up. He kisses Sherlock’s nape. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just... not that interesting. Not like you.’

The memory fades as Sherlock’s reply echoes around them.

They disappear.

***

Dinner at Angelo’s again.

It’s been a fortnight without a case and John and Sherlock sit opposite one another, eating in silence.

John finishes a bottle of wine. Sherlock glares out of the window.

They walk home in silence and watch TV in silence and go to bed in silence and it’s all so very, very sad.

***

‘Jim, get off the phone, come on, we’ve got work to do,’ Molly says, as Jim picks up his ringing mobile and waves Molly off. She sighs and taps at the keys in front of her with more vigour. ‘Jim.’ Molly glares.

‘Hello? Sherlock, is that you?’

‘ _Oh Jim, you’re there. I’m... I don’t know what’s wrong with me_.’

‘Why, what’s the matter?’ Jim says, turning to glance at Molly.

‘ _I don’t know, Jim, I’m so confused, I feel... I feel like I’m disappearing and I..._ ’

‘Maybe I should come and see you.’

‘ _No. No, I... I don’t know. I don’t know._ ’

‘I’d cheer you up,’ Jim cajoles.

‘ _Yes_ ,’ Sherlock says from the other end of the phone, his voice tight. ‘ _Yes, alright_.’ Jim puts the phone down.

‘Molly... Molly, can I leave for a bit? My boyfriend’s really upset.’

Molly sighs in exasperation. ‘Jim, we’re in the middle of erasing this poor man’s memory and you want to run over to the man that erased him and...’ she sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. ‘Fine. Fine. Go.’

***

‘What do you think?’ Sherlock says, drawing himself up and arching an eyebrow, his arms out to one side as he poses, showing off his new silk shirt. It’s a deep, deep red, and he looks splendid in it.

‘Wow,’ John says, grinning as he wriggles to sit up against the headboard.

‘Do you like it?’ Sherlock drawls, crawling onto the bed and on top of John, kissing him eagerly.

‘Mm, I love it,’ John mumbles against Sherlock’s lips, running his hands up and down Sherlock’s sides, feeling the silk. ‘I love it and I love you and--’

John sits up and frowns at the voice he hears suddenly.

‘ _My boyfriend’s really upset._ ’

‘How did he creep into your life like that?’ he asks, cupping Sherlock’s cheek.

‘Hm?’ Sherlock says, nuzzling into John’s palm. ‘Who?’

***

Jim grabs his stick and his jumper and his iPhone with the hacked, private pages of John’s blog saved to it out of the back of the van and he makes his way over to Baker Street.

Sherlock throws the door open, his hair wild, his shirt undone, his eyes red-rimmed and his face pale.

‘Hey, hey, what’s the matter?’ Jim coos, limping into 221b, following Sherlock as he stalks back into the heart of the flat.

‘I don’t know,’ Sherlock says. ‘I don’t know, I feel like I’m disappearing and my skin’s coming off and it’s like... it’s like there are people inside my head and I... I don’t know, I just don’t know.’ He sits down in the low armchair with the union jack cushion and stands up almost immediately. ‘It’s not right, it’s not right.’

‘Sherlock, it’s... it’s okay,’ Jim says, moving to wrap his arms around Sherlock. He kisses Sherlock’s nest of curls. ‘It’s okay.’

‘No, it’s not okay, nothing makes any sense, and I thought that ringing you would make it better, someone _always_ makes it better and...’ he pushes Jim away and holds him at arm’s length.

‘Let’s get away,’ Sherlock says. ‘Let’s go, right now, do you want to come to Angelo’s with me?’

‘Angelo’s?’

‘Yes, Angelo’s-- no, Margate. Yes, let’s go to Margate.’

‘We... we could go next weekend?’

‘No, _now_ ,’ Sherlock says, buttoning his shirt up. ‘Let’s go now, I have to go now.’

***

 _Molly, I’m really sorry, my boyfriend’s a bit of a mess and can you manage tonight by yourself? I’ll owe you one. Jim._

Molly makes an irritated sound in the back of her throat at the text and throws her phone onto the bed next to John.

***

‘Margate,’ Jim mutters as he flips through the pages of John’s blog on his phone, biting his lip as he ctrl and fs every page. ‘Margate, Margate...’

 _I told Sherlock that I love him today. That he makes me feel alive._

‘Come along, Jim,’ Sherlock says from the doorway, pulling on his gloves, his movements still jerky and agitated.

Jim drops the phone back into his bag and rummages around in the bottom. ‘I, uh... I got you this,’ he says, grabbing the wrapped present with _Sherlock_ scrawled on it in John’s handwriting. ‘Happy early Valentine’s day, uh...’ he hands it over and Sherlock unwraps it, frowning at the indigo cashmere scarf that spills out over his fingers.

‘Do you... do you like it?’

‘It’s... it’s exactly my taste,’ Sherlock murmurs. ‘I’ve... I’ve never known anyone to buy me clothes I actually like,’ he says, blinking at Jim. ‘Thank you.’

Jim smiles and leans in. He kisses Sherlock sweetly on the mouth.

***

‘John?’ Sherlock whispers.

‘Mm?’

They’re in bed together, lying under the sheets as summer sunshine pours in from outside.

‘Am I... am I a freak?’

‘No,’ John breathes, brushing his thumb over Sherlock’s lower lip.

Sherlock’s brow furrows. ‘Sometimes... sometimes I think people forget how lonely it is, to be a child,’ he murmurs. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. ‘I... was eight,’ he says. And... and I had some toys, you know, wooden dolls, soldiers, that sort of thing.’ He swallows. ‘My favourite was a wind-up monkey that banged its cymbals together, you know the sort?’

He turns to look at John, and John nods.

‘He... he had a rainbow waistcoat and a lopsided grin and a missing button eye and a wonky leg. I pretended he... he didn’t fit in with the other toys, that he wasn’t like them, kept him in a corner.’ Sherlock closes his eyes. ‘I called him Sherlock. I used to tell him: “be normal! You can’t be a freak, be normal, you have to be normal, you have to make them like you!”’ Sherlock sighs. ‘It was as though if I could make him change... then I would change too.’

Pain flashes across John’s face and he rolls on top of Sherlock, kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. ‘You’re not a freak,’ he murmurs, stroking Sherlock’s face, his throat, his chest. ‘You’re not a freak, you’re not, you’re not, you’re not...’

‘John, don’t ever leave me,’ Sherlock whispers, kissing back.

***

‘Please,’ John says, clutching hold of the sheets as the memory starts to disappear, as Sherlock vanishes from underneath him. ‘Please, Moran, let me keep this memory. Just this one.’

***

Sherlock and John sit on Margate beach, watching the tide roll in. Sherlock rests his left hand on top of John’s right and squeezes, lacing their fingers together. He shifts to lie on his back and John does the same, their heads both turned in so they can look at each other.

‘I love you,’ John says, his voice sure, steady. ‘You make me feel alive again. I love you.’

Sherlock smiles crookedly and leans in, presses his lips to John’s.

A wave surges forwards and up and _over_ , over their heads and it crashes around them and pulls Sherlock into the sea, his face frozen, his eyes wide.

John gasps and sits up, tightens his hands into fists. ‘I don’t want to do this anymore,’ he murmurs. He throws his head back and shouts to the sky, to anyone who can hear. ‘I want to stop this!’ He draws in a hitching breath, his eyes damp. ‘I want to call it off,’ he whispers. ‘Can you hear me?!’ he yells again. ‘I don’t want to do this anymore!’

***

Molly squints at the screen and taps at her keys.

***

‘Is anybody there?!’ John roars, slamming his fists down onto his knees, trying desperately to end it.

***

Molly sips her water.

***

‘John?’ Sherlock’s voice calls out from the darkness.

‘Sherlock?’ John scrambles to his feet, runs along the beach.

‘John?’

‘Sherlock?!’

John runs and runs and finds Sherlock on his side on the sand.

‘John?’

‘Sherlock, come on, get up,’ John says, pulling Sherlock to his feet, grasping his hand tightly. ‘We’ve got to go.’

‘What? Where?’ Sherlock says, though he follows John as he runs.

‘I have to stop this, I’ve got an idea,’ John mutters, pulling Sherlock along as he runs and runs and runs, their feet splashing in the surf, fragmented memories flashing alongside them.

John and Sherlock in the flat, drinking tea, John and Sherlock at Barts, inspecting corpses, John and Sherlock in bed, laughing together.

‘Concentrate,’ John says. ‘We’ve got to get back to the office, back to the tape recorder, concentrate, Sherlock!’

 _‘Doctor Watson, sorry, our files are confidential. I’m afraid I haven’t any evidence to give you but, ah... Mr. Holmes was not... was not happy. And he wanted to move on.’_

John runs and runs and runs.

 _’Tell me about Sherlock.’_

‘Tell me everything you remember, that’s what he said, everything I remember.’

They’re at Euston with luggage, about to catch a train.

‘Where are we going?’ Sherlock says as they dash through the station. People start vanishing around them.

‘Shit,’ John hisses. He drops their bags and grabs Sherlock’s hand again.

‘Why are we running?’

‘We’re not getting on the train,’ John says, running out of the doors into bright sunlight. ‘Moran!’ he shouts. ‘MORAN!’

‘Oh, must we run any more, John?’ Sherlock whinges as they stride through Lestrade’s dark flat, another version of the two of them playing scrabble on the other side of the wall.

‘Here,’ John says, throwing a door open.

‘Tell me about Sherlock,’ Moran says, sitting opposite another John.

‘Moran!’ John shouts. ‘Moran! Wake me up!’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Dr. Watson, I thought you understood what was going on here.’

John closes his eyes and grits his teeth.

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘You’re erasing him from me. You’re erasing _me_ from _him_ , I...’ He turns to Sherlock and sees he is faceless; a blank, empty mask where his strange, lovely features should be. John slams the door. ‘I’m in my bed, you’re in my brain, you’ve got that machine...’

‘I’m part of your imagination too, John. How can I help you from there? I’m inside your head too. I’m you.’

A man in a white coat drops a pile of notes. ‘Sorry,’ he says. He is softly-spoken, Irish, small. He retreats into the blackness.

‘Who’s that?’ John demands.

‘Oh, that’s _Jim_ ,’ Moran says, affecting Sherlock’s deep, languid tones. ‘He works for us.’

‘He’s stealing my identity,’ John says, frantic, scratching his head, licking his lips. ‘He’s seducing my boyfriend, _my_ \-- my Sherlock, with my words and my things. He stole his underwear! Jesus, he stole his underwear.’

John opens a door and disappears.

***

Jim and Sherlock sit on Margate beach, watching the tide roll in. Jim rests his hand on top of Sherlock’s but Sherlock doesn’t respond. He shifts to lie on his back and Jim does the same, his head turned in so he can look at Sherlock.

‘I love you,’ Jim says, his voice an unsure whisper. ‘You make me feel, uh... alive again.’

Sherlock sits bolt upright.

‘I want to go home,’ he says.

‘What?’

Sherlock stands and marches off back towards the town.

‘Sherlock!’ Jim shouts after him, struggling to his feet and pretending to limp after Sherlock, holding onto his stick. ‘Sherlock!’

***

‘Sherlock?’ John calls. He’s on the roof of 221, looking out across the city. ‘Sherlock?’

‘Here I am,’ Sherlock says, jumping down off the chimney. He smiles.

‘Sherlock, I need you to concentrate,’ John says, tense and tight. ‘They’re erasing you from me.’

‘Oh, John, calm down,’ Sherlock says, rolling his eyes and going over to the edge of the roof. ‘Enjoy the view.’

‘This needs to stop,’ John says with a sigh. ‘I need to end it before I wake up and I haven’t got a clue who you are.’

Sherlock turns. ‘Tell them to cancel it, then,’ he says, walking over to sit next to John. He is wearing his grey shirt and a pair of skin-tight jeans. He holds a glass of wine.

John sighs in exasperation and clutches his head. ‘God, Sherlock, I’m asleep, I can’t just tell them to cancel it.’

‘Well then wake yourself up,’ Sherlock says, widening his eyes at John.

John mutters under his breath and moves to lie on the ground. ‘Right, fine, wake myself up, let’s give it a go.’ He prises his eyes open with his fingertips and stares up at the evening sky. He holds his eyes open wide. ‘Yep. Yep, that’s definitely working, that’s working really--’

The ceiling in Harry’s house has a patch of damp.

John-on-the-roof shakes himself.

‘That did work. Just for a second, but...’

‘But what?’ Sherlock says with a raised eyebrow.

‘But I couldn’t move.’

‘Well, you didn’t even _try_.’

‘Try, I couldn’t... I couldn’t move, Sherlock, I--’

Sherlock rolls his eyes again. John sighs heavily.

‘Look,’ John says. ‘You erased me first. That’s why I’m here, it’s why I’m doing this in the first bloody place.’

Sherlock tilts his head to the side and looks awkward. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs. ‘I’m sorry, you know me, I get bored and I do strange, stupid things and--’

‘I love you for it,’ John murmurs, lifting his eyes to meet Sherlock’s.

They kiss, slowly.

***

‘John.’

They are on the sofa of 221b.

‘Mm?’ John kisses Sherlock’s shoulder.

‘I have an idea. This is a memory of me, how you wanted to have sex on the sofa after looking down at my crotch.’

True to the memory, John glances down at Sherlock’s crotch. ‘What?’ he says.

‘They’re coming here, to erase this memory. So... you should take me somewhere else, somewhere I don’t belong, and we can hide there ‘til morning?’

John’s head falls onto the back of the sofa. ‘I can hardly remember anything before you,’ he murmurs.

Sherlock snorts derisively. ‘Try,’ he orders.

***

It starts to rain inside the flat.

‘It’s working!’ Sherlock laughs. ‘I’m a genius.’

John crawls on his stomach underneath the sofa. He disappears.

‘John!’ Sherlock calls. ‘John!’

***

‘I think it’s working,’ Sherlock says after lying on his stomach in a field with a ten-year-old John Watson for nearly five minutes, thick grass around them as they watch the movements of a picnicking family.

‘Shh,’ John says with a glare, jabbing a small finger in the direction of the family. ‘They could be the enemy.’ He pulls his too-large beret down further over his face, cam cream daubed across his cheeks.

Sherlock chuckles. ‘The real enemy’s out there, John,’ he murmurs. ‘You never told me you used to play soldiers.’

‘Of course I used to play soldiers, every soldier used to play soldiers,’ John says with a grin. His face is the same as always but there is a certain boyishness in his flushed cheeks, his bright eyes. He looks happy.

‘Shh,’ John says again, pointing his plastic gun at a wasp and closing one eye, his tongue poking out of his mouth.

***

Molly is in the kitchen, making herself a cup of tea when the machine starts to beep loudly. ‘Shit,’ she mutters. ‘Shit.’ She runs over to the screen and presses several keys, her frown deepening. ‘Oh God, shit. He’s off the map. You’re off the map, why are you off the map?’

She looks at John and sighs, presses some more keys. The beeping continues. ‘Shit. Shit, I have to ring Sebastian.’

Tugging at her hair, Molly dials Sebastian’s number.

It rings five times.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Seb? I’ve... this man I’m working on at the minute, I... I seem to have lost him and... and he won’t come back up.’

‘Right, uh, tell me what happened before he disappeared.’

‘I don’t know, I’m not sure, I was only away for a moment, I was making a cup of tea and I had it on autopilot and uh...’

‘Well where’s Jim?’

‘Jim... Jim had to go home ill.’  
Sebastian sighs.

‘I know,’ Molly says. ‘I know, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’

‘What’s the address?’

***

‘You will remember me, in the morning, won’t you?’ Sherlock says. ‘And you’ll find me, and tell me about us, and we can start again.’

‘Johnny!’ a voice calls from across the field.

John grabs hold of Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘That Jim bloke,’ he says. He’s copying me. He’s one of them and he fell for you when they were doing you the other night and now he’s introduced himself like he doesn’t know you and he’s using me to get to you and you’re with him now.’

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. ‘Am I really?’

***

‘Sherlock, you’re fine, you’re the most brilliant person I’ve ever met, there’s nothing wrong with you,’ Jim says as Sherlock drives at least thirty miles an hour over the speed limit down the motorway back to London. He’d stolen and hotwired a car in Margate thirty minutes previously.

‘You’re clever and gorgeous and interesting and... and I feel like you’re going to save my life.’

‘What?’ Sherlock exclaims, staring incredulously at Jim. ‘What?’

***

Sebastian arrives soon enough. Molly lets him in with a blush and she explains breathlessly that she has no idea what’s gone wrong. Sebastian nods and sits down.

‘Did you try going through the C-gate?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ Molly says. ‘Yes, I tried that, but... I’m _so_ sorry, Sebastian, I--’

‘It’s alright, Molly.’ Sebastian looks at her for a long moment. ‘Let’s try and get to the bottom of this.’

***

Ten-year-old John glares as his mother dumps him on the draining board and rubs a wet cloth all over his face and knees and arms.

‘I _hate_ being scrubbed with a cloth,’ he mutters, kicking his feet against the cupboard below the sink and passive-aggressively trying to resist his mother’s attempts to clean him up.

Sherlock laughs.

***

‘I’ve found it,’ Sebastian says, squinting at the screen. ‘But why is it off the map like that...? What’s he doing there?’

He hits the key to delete.

***

Sherlock disappears first and John starts to struggle.

***

John begins to thrash on the bed.

‘His... his eyes are open,’ Sebastian says, frowning, going to loom over John. ‘Has this happened before with him?’

‘No,’ Molly says. ‘No.’

‘Oh, this isn’t good,’ Sebastian mutters. He goes over to his briefcase and extracts a needle. ‘I’ll have to give him this.’ He pins John to the bed and injects the serum into his arm.

***

John appears in a taxi next to Sherlock, bruised and aching from his struggle.

***

‘That was beautiful to watch, Sebastian,’ Molly murmurs.

There is quiet between them for a long moment.

‘Thank you, Molly.’

***

‘The next time Lestrade calls me out for something that tedious I shall steal his possessions from him one by one.’

John laughs and shakes his head, looks out of the window of the taxi.

‘It wasn’t _that_ bad,’ he says, and when he turns back, Sherlock vanishes.

‘Sherlock!’ he exclaims, grabbing hold of him, managing to pull him back out of the ether. ‘Sherlock, come on, we’ve got to go.’

***

John pulls Sherlock all the way back to Moran’s office.

***

‘That’s strange,’ Molly says, having taken Sebastian’s place at the monitor again. ‘He’s in a memory I’ve already erased. It looks as though he’s developing some sort of resistance to it, that’s... that’s not possible.’

***

‘Hide me somewhere deeper,’ Sherlock says, grabbing hold of John’s arms as he so often did. ‘Somewhere really buried.’

***

‘He’s disappeared again,’ Molly says. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Sebastian.’

***

John is sixteen and tossing himself off in his single bed, his toes curling, his teeth sunk into his bottom lip. Sherlock lies next to him and laughs silently, runs his fingers down John’s thigh.

‘Need a hand?’ he asks, his voice amused.

‘Fuck off,’ John snarls.

‘Johnny, can I just--’ the door opens and John’s mother stands in front of them. She blinks once in surprise and turns away, closes the door again. ‘I’ll just ask you in the morning, love,’ she says through the door.

John moans, his face almost purple with embarrassment as he throws the covers over both of their heads.

***

Sherlock tears the covers away and grins at the snow-covered beach.

‘John,’ he says. ‘John, look where we are!’

‘Oh, this isn’t good,’ John groans, falling back onto the bed.

‘Then... then hide me somewhere deeper. Somewhere _really_ buried.’

***

‘WATSON!’

There’s blood and gunfire and noise and blood and lights and blood and blood and blood.

John has his hands buried in another soldier’s torn-open chest as he tries to re-arrange everything, put it all back in its rightful position. He is shaking and crying and people are shouting for him, and dear God, the _blood_.

‘I’m scared, Sherlock,’ John cries, tears pouring down his cheeks. ‘I’m scared, I’m scared, I’m so scared.’

Sherlock wraps his arms around John from behind and holds onto him tightly. ‘You brave man,’ he murmurs. ‘You good, brave man, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’

The body John has his hands in dries up and withers away; turns to bone and then to dust.

***

‘I still don’t understand this,’ Sebastian murmurs. ‘He’s easy enough to find, but...’

He presses a key.

***

‘Can you take it?’ Sherlock asks with a wicked grin, passing the riding crop between his hands.

‘Of course I can take it,’ John replies, on his front on their bed, his arse bare. ‘Go on, do it. Unless you’re scared.’

Sherlock arches one eyebrow and smiles slowly, so slowly it has a sinister edge to it. He brings the crop down hard on John’s arse, and John makes a frankly embarrassing noise as he arches into the bed.

‘Another?’ Sherlock says, grinning.

John nods. ‘Alright, one more, on the other cheek. Then it’s your turn.’

‘Then it’s my turn,’ Sherlock agrees, whacking John hard again.

‘Fuck!’ John roars, twisting for a minute until they both burst out laughing.

They swap places. ‘Ready?’ John asks, stroking Sherlock’s arse gently before raising the crop and swinging it down.

Sherlock disappears.

The crop hits the bed.

***

Snow gathers around John’s feet and he sighs as the room darkens and he finds himself on Margate beach.

‘John, come here,’ Sherlock calls from the shoreline, crouching as he sends a stone skipping across the waves.

‘We’ve got to go,’ John shouts back, though he goes over anyway. He grabs Sherlock’s wrist. ‘Come on, we’ve got to go.’

‘Do you remember the first time we came here?’ Sherlock asks. ‘It was for a case.’

‘Of course it was for a case, everything was for a case,’ John says. ‘Come _on_.’

Sherlock stands straight. ‘And you never once complained,’ he says quietly. ‘You always followed.'

‘You were worth it. You still are.’

Sherlock stoops to kiss John. He pulls back and as John watches, Sherlock slips away.

***

‘I like watching you work, Sebastian,’ Molly says quietly, sitting in a chair at the end of the bed as she watches Sebastian press the keys in front of him.

He smiles.

‘Do... do you like quotes, Sebastian?’ she asks. ‘Only... only I do and I’ve come across some that I thought you might like.’

‘Well, I’d... I’d love to hear them, Molly,’ he says.

‘There’s this one by... by Alexander Pope.’ She plays with the end of her plait. ‘It made me think of you.’

‘Go on,’ Sebastian says.

‘It goes... How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot?’

***

Sherlock and John run through London, down streets and back alleys and across buildings and up stairs. Sherlock hands John his gun and they share a look, a secret smile.

***

‘The world forgetting, by the world forgot.’

***

Sherlock plays his violin in the kitchen as John cooks dinner. He taps John’s bum with the bow and John turns, pretends to be angry as he pushes Sherlock against the counter and then kisses the breath out of him. They dissolve into helpess laughter.

***

‘Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind.’

***

Sherlock presses his lips to John’s forehead as John sleeps. He watches him for a very long time.

***

‘Each prayer accepted, and each wish resigned.’

***

Sherlock stops mid-deduction and runs into a crowd and John follows but can’t find him.

‘Sherlock?’ he calls. ‘Sherlock?’

***

‘I haven’t heard that one,’ Sebastian says to Molly. ‘It’s lovely.’

‘I just thought it might be appropriate.’ Molly stands and moves closer to Sebastian. ‘I really admire your work, Sebastian.’

Sebastian nods.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be so familiar.’

‘Oh, it’s... it’s fine. I’m happy to hear--’

Molly swoops in and grabs hold of his hair and presses a desperate kiss to his lips.

‘I’m sorry,’ she breathes when she pulls away. She walks back to sit in her own chair, her hand pressed to her mouth. ‘I’ve loved you for a very long time.’ She breathes in deeply. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘Oh, Molly, no,’ Sebastian says. ‘You’re a wonderful girl, you are, but I... I have a wife, and kids... and. You know I have a wife and kids.’

Molly buries her face in her hands.

‘Molly, we can’t do this. Sebastian gets up and cups her cheek, leans in and kisses her again. ‘We can’t.’ He kisses her again, and again.

***

A car roars up outside. A middle-aged woman gets out and sees Molly and Sebastian kissing in the window. Her face is tired and resigned, and her body slumps as she sighs. She slams the car door and Sebastian looks up, a look of horror twisting his features as he stands and runs outside.

‘Irene!’ he shouts after the car. ‘Irene!’ He runs until he is level with the car and Irene brakes sharply.

‘I knew it, Sebastian,’ she says, sounding exhausted.

‘Irene, it didn’t start like this, I swear, I came here to work.’

Molly has run outside too. ‘Irene, I promise, I’m just a stupid girl with a stupid crush, I... I forced him into it!’ she shouts.

Irene shifts her pained eyes to Molly. She shakes her head.

‘Don’t be a monster, Sebastian. Tell the girl.’

‘Tell me what?’ Molly murmurs.

‘Oh, you poor kid,’ Irene mutters. ‘You can have him. You did.’

Irene drives away.

‘ _What_?’ Molly asks Sebastian.

‘Uh...’ Sebastian looks at the ground. ‘We... we have a history. You wanted the procedure, you wanted it done so you could get past... look, Molly, there’s work to do. It’s almost morning. We can talk later.’

He goes back inside.

***

‘So, what were we doing back there?’ John asks, catching his breath as he leans against the wall in the hall of 221.

‘Oh, just passing the time,’ Sherlock says, turning to grin at John. ‘And proving a point.’

‘Yeah? What point?’

‘You,’ Sherlock murmurs. ‘Mrs Hudson! Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs!’

‘Says who?’

‘Says the man at the door.’

A knock. John frowns, answers, retrieves his stick from Angelo and goes back over to Sherlock.

‘I had you pegged, didn’t I?’ Sherlock murmurs, looking at John.

‘You’ve got the whole human race pegged, Sherlock Holmes.’ John touches Sherlock’s wrist. ‘I thought you were going to save my life.’

Sherlock looks down. The furniture begins to disappear around them.

‘If we could just give it another go...’ John murmurs.

Sherlock sighs and rests his hand on John’s chest. ‘Remember me,’ he whispers. ‘Try your best. Perhaps we can.’ He touches their noses together and disappears. 221 disintegrates around John where he stands, becoming nothing more than frames and foundations.

***

Molly tears apart Sebastian’s office until she finds her file, secreted away in the top drawer of his desk. She fumbles to get her tape out and shoves it in the recorder, sitting down heavily in the chair to listen.

 _‘Tell me... just tell me what you remember, and we’ll, uh, take it from there.’_

Molly-on-the-tape takes a breath.

 _’I liked you immediately. I was so tongue-tied around you at first. I wanted you to think I was clever. I couldn’t wait to come to work. I had these fantasies of us, and... oh, Seb, I can’t do this.’_

 _‘We agreed it was for the best, Molly.’_

 _‘I know. I know.’_

***

‘This is the day we met,’ John murmurs.

He limps into the lab at St. Barts and all of Sherlock’s attention shifts to him. The deduction John thought about so many times afterwards is rattled off and Sherlock warns him about his not speaking for days on end and asks whether it would bother John.

‘That’s it, then? We’ve only just met, and we’re gonna go and look at a flat.’

Sherlock looks at John intently as he ties his scarf around his neck.

Mike fades away.

‘This is it, John,’ Sherlock murmurs. ‘All of this. It’s going to be gone soon.’

John sighs and changes his stance, closes his eyes. ‘I know.’ He meets Sherlock’s eyes.

‘What do we do?’ Sherlock asks.

John pauses. Resigns himself. ‘Enjoy it,’ he says.

***

They don’t have long. They don’t have long at all. The lab and the hospital begin to crash down around them, bricks tumbling as Sherlock strides through the lab, pulls open the door.

‘I didn’t even know your name,’ John shouts as Sherlock leaves. He walks over to the door, where Sherlock re-appears. They stand close together.

‘The name was and is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221 Baker Street,’ Sherlock says quietly.

‘Give me a proper goodbye, at least,’ John says.

‘Goodbye, John,’ Sherlock murmurs.

‘I love you.’ John takes Sherlock’s hand and leans in.

‘Meet me in Margate,’ Sherlock whispers.

The memory fades away.

***

‘That’s it,’ Moran says, closing his laptop. ‘Done.’

***

John wakes up in the spare bed at Harry’s.

***

Molly moves her things and as many boxes of files as she can fit in her car out of the office.

***

John is halfway to work before he turns and runs as quickly as he can to catch the tube to take the train to Margate.

***

Sherlock picks up a message on his answerphone just before John knocks the door.

‘ _Where are you, Sherlock?_ ’ Jim asks. ‘ _I’m worried. I feel like you’re angry at me and I don’t know why. I love you so much, I’ll do anything to make you happy. Anything. Look, I’ll come round later to make sure you’re okay_.’

Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes, deletes the message.

The doorbell rings. Sherlock picks up the post that Mrs Hudson has left on the kitchen table and sifts through it, frowning when he sees two identical brown envelopes, one addressed to him, one to John. He runs down the stairs.

‘News travels fast,’ he says with a smirk as he pulls open the front door and hands John his envelope. ‘Post for you.’

‘You’re joking,’ John says, walking inside, following Sherlock back up the stairs. ‘Is that one the same?’ he asks, nodding to Sherlock’s envelope.

‘Mm,’ Sherlock says, ripping the envelope open and pulling out a letter, a file and a tape. ‘Strange,’ he murmurs.

‘“To all patients of Dr. Sebastian Moran,

My name is Molly Hooper. We’ve met, but you don’t remember me. I worked for a company you hired to have part of your memory erased. I have since decided that this is a horrible. In order to correct this, I'm sending everyone's file back to them.”’

Sherlock’s frown deepens. He takes the tape and shoves it in a cassette player on the living room table. He presses play.

‘ _My, ah... my name is Sherlock Holmes, and I’d like to erase John Watson_.’

John looks at Sherlock, his mouth slightly open. Sherlock looks just as confused.

‘ _I’m bored. He’s boring, he’s_ so _boring, is that enough reason to erase someone? All the... all the spirit’s gone out of him and I just... I just can’t bear to be in the same room as him anymore, can’t stand to look at his sad, old eyes and feel him judging me, I..._ ’

‘Is this a fucking joke?’ John snarls, his fists clenching.

‘No,’ Sherlock exclaims softly. ‘No, no, Christ, no.’ He looks lost and confused.

‘This better be a fucking joke, Sherlock, because--’

‘Open yours.’

‘What?’

‘Open yours, it’s the same.’

Sherlock continues to talk on the tape as John pulls his own letter, tape and file out, the letter identical to Sherlock’s.

‘Here.’ Sherlock ejects his tape and shoves John’s into the machine. He presses play.

 _‘Uh. Uh, my name is John Watson and I’m here to, uh... I’m here to erase Sherlock Holmes.’_

 _‘Tell me about Sherlock.’_

 _‘I’d... I’d just been invalided out from Afghanistan. I’d gone for a walk one afternoon and I ran into an old friend of mine from university - Mike, Mike Stamford. He... he took me back to St. Barts, where we went, where he works, and I, uh... I met Sherlock.’_

They stand next to each other, not looking at each other, listening as John’s quiet, sad voice steadily grows angrier, more sure. They listen as John mentions everything he doesn’t like about Sherlock, every tiny little thing until Sherlock presses the button to stop the tape.

‘Do you really think those things about me?’ he murmurs.

‘No,’ John says. ‘No, God, no, of course I don’t think those things.’

‘But you did.’

‘You thought stuff like that too, Sherlock; you erased me first!’ John ejects the tape and shoves it back in his envelope. ‘Look, this is... this is too much for me to deal with, I... I’m going to leave,’ He frowns and sighs and pulls open the door. ‘It was... it was nice meeting you, I... I suppose.’

He runs down the stairs. His hand is on the knob of the front door when he hears Sherlock’s voice.

‘Wait.’

‘Why?’ John sighs.

‘I... just... _wait_ ,’ Sherlock says, going down the stairs after John.

John looks into Sherlock’s eyes. He nods. ‘Alright.’

Sherlock breathes out and moves closer. ‘I don’t know why I erased you,’ he murmurs. ‘I don’t know why I said those things.’

‘I don’t know why I did either,’ John murmurs. ‘I can’t think of anything I don’t like about you.’

‘You will, though. You will think of things. And I’ll get bored and feel trapped and...’ He trails off.

John smiles. ‘Okay,’ he murmurs.

Sherlock breathes out, and nods. ‘Okay,’ he replies.

***

They run through London and down Margate beach and they solve crimes together and live in the flat, and they’re happy.

They’re happy enough.


End file.
